Here, Gamache realized, was a man who truly loved art. He might be a businessman, might be opportunistic. Might be a ranting egoist.
But he knew and loved great art. Clara’s art.
Lillian Dyson’s art?
“I have,” said the Chief Inspector. “And I agree. She’s remarkable.”
Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself.
But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting.
“As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’”
The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created.
“I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.”
“Why would you say it at all?”
“It’s what you were saying earlier, about different ways to kill. A lot of my artists are gay. When I’m with a new artist I know is gay, I’d often point someone out and say what you just said. It throws them off. Keeps them afraid, off balance. It’s a mind-fuck. And if they don’t fight back I know I have them.”
“And do they?”
“Fight back? Clara was the first. That should’ve also told me she was something special. An artist with a voice, a vision and a backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient. Much rather have them compliant.”
“So you fired her, and tried to smear her reputation.”
“Didn’t work,” he smiled ruefully. “The Musée scooped her up. I went there to apologize. I knew that pretty soon she’d be the one with all the power, all the influence.”
“Enlightened self-interest on your part?” Gamache asked.
“Better than none at all,” said Fortin.
“What happened when you arrived?”
“I got there early and the first person I saw was that guy, the one I insulted.”
“Gabri.”
“Right. I realized I owed him as well. So I apologized to him first. It was quite a festival of contrition.”
Gamache smiled again. Fortin, finally, seemed sincere. And he could always check out the story. Indeed, it was so easy to check Gamache suspected it was the truth. Denis Fortin had gone to the vernissage, uninvited, to apologize.
“And then you approached Clara. What did she say?”
“Actually, she approached me. I guess she heard me saying sorry to Gabri. We got to talking and I said how sorry I was. And congratulated her on a fabulous show. I told her I wished it was at the Galerie Fortin, but that she was much better off at the Musée. She was very nice about it.”
Gamache could hear the relief, and even surprise, in Fortin’s voice.
“She invited me down to the party that night in Three Pines. I actually had dinner plans but felt I couldn’t really say no. So I ducked out to cancel the plans with my friends and went to the barbeque instead.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Honestly? Not long. It’s a long drive down and back. I spoke to a few colleagues, fended off a few mediocre artists—”
Gamache wondered if those included Normand and Paulette and suspected it did.
“—chatted with Clara and Peter so they’d know I was there. Then I left.”
“Did you speak to André Castonguay or François Marois?”
“I spoke to both of them. Castonguay’s gallery’s just down the road if you’re looking for him.”
“I’ve already talked to him. He’s still in Three Pines, as is Monsieur Marois.”
“Is that right?” said Fortin. “I wonder why.”
Gamache felt in his pocket and brought out the coin. Holding the Baggie up between them he asked, “Have you ever seen one of these before?”
“A silver dollar?”
“Look more closely, please.”
“May I?” Fortin gestured toward it and Gamache handed it to him. “It’s light.” Fortin looked at one side then the other before handing it back. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what it is.”
He looked closely at the Chief Inspector.
“I’ve been patient, I think,” said Fortin. “But perhaps now you’ll tell me what this’s about.”
“Do you know a woman named Lillian Dyson?”